The Rumor, page 17
“I don’t live like other people,” Liz says. “I like my solitude. It’s the only way I can work.” She pushes her mug away from her and folds her arms on the table. “It’s not that I don’t want to see other people. I do. But only when I’m able to socialize. When I feel up to it. It sounds a bit pretentious to say it’s because I’m an artist, but…” She twists her mouth into an odd little smile.
“…it’s because I’m an artist.”
I wait for her to continue. I have the feeling that, if I speak, I’ll break the spell of her confession. If that’s what this is.
“When I’m working on a project, it consumes me,” she says. “Nothing else matters. Nothing. The normal niceties of social interaction. Commitments like book club.” She points to her disheveled hair and smiles. “Personal grooming. It all falls by the wayside. This morning was the first time I’ve done something else. I needed to get out in the fresh air, do something physical. And I never remember to lock my back door.”
She takes a sip of coffee. “It’s nice to know you were concerned about me, Jo,” she says. “And I’m sorry I frightened you with the knife.”
I make myself smile and nod. When is she going to mention the portrait? Surely she’s not going to leave it like that?
“I’ll speak to Sonia,” she says. “But I doubt very much she’ll give Michael an interview. Sonia’s a very private person. Like me.” Her eyes narrow. “Sometimes it’s better to let things run their course. People will tire of it soon enough, when they see her getting on with her life, when she refuses to rise to the bait. A story in a paper will just fan the flames, in my opinion. Sonia needs to carry on as if nothing has happened.”
I can’t hold my tongue any longer. I have to ask her about the portrait.
“The project you’re working on at the moment…” I say. The words hang in the air between us.
Liz gives me a sharp look.
“Is it that self-portrait I saw in your studio?”
She straightens her spine. “I don’t usually talk about things I’m working on. Not until I’ve finished them,” she says, gathering up our plates and mugs, signaling that the conversation is over. This part of it, at least.
“Can I ask you something else before I go?”
I’ve crossed into forbidden territory. I don’t know what the hell I’m doing but, now that I’ve started, I can’t stop.
Liz leans back in her chair and scrutinizes my face. She blinks several times.
“I saw the clippings,” I say. “I know what the bits of paper are.” My breath catches in my throat. What comes out is barely even a whisper. “You’re not…you’re not her, are you?”
A faint smile plays at the corners of Liz’s lips. I can’t believe I said that. Can’t believe I’m sitting here asking Liz from book club if she’s Sally McGowan. I ball my fists between my thighs.
“Did you ever see the painting Myra, by Marcus Harvey?” she asks.
Myra Hindley murdered five children in England in the 1960s—her name makes me shiver. “No, but I vaguely remember reading something about it once. Didn’t someone throw paint at it?”
“It was vandalized, yes. It caused a huge controversy when it was hung at the Royal Academy. Not just because of the subject matter, but because it was made up of prints taken from the cast of a child’s hand. People thought it was an outrage. The victims’ families wanted it removed to protect their feelings. Even Myra Hindley herself wanted it taken down, but it wasn’t. It stayed for the duration of the exhibition, and rightly so, in my view. Art should divide opinion. It should provoke emotion. Art should make us think.
“When you told us about the rumor, I was interested to see the different reactions in the group. It got me thinking about the case. I couldn’t stop thinking about it. That’s how I know an idea’s got legs. When it doesn’t let me go.”
“But…but why is it a self-portrait?”
“Remember Nietzsche?” Liz says. “He who fights with monsters should be careful lest he thereby become a monster. And if thou gaze long into an abyss, the abyss will also gaze into thee.”
She fixes me with her eyes, and though I want to look away, I can’t.
“There’s darkness in everyone’s soul,” Liz says. “That’s what my portrait is all about. We’re all of us capable of evil thoughts and evil acts under certain circumstances. I’m an artist, Jo. This is what I do.”
“I didn’t mean to accuse you, I…”
“You didn’t accuse. You asked.”
“Same thing, isn’t it?”
She clasps her hands together in front of her chin, her elbows on the table. Her eyes flash. “What if I’d said yes?” she says.
I laugh, except the noise that comes out of my mouth sounds more like a whimper.
It’s only when we’ve said goodbye and I’m walking to my car that it occurs to me she didn’t actually say no.
35
WHEN I GET BACK TO the office, Dave is with a client. I slide into the chair behind my desk and switch on my PC, immerse myself in routine tasks. Anything to push the last half hour to the back of my mind.
Do I believe what Liz just told me? Is that really what her portrait is about? An exploration of the monster in all of us? It has a ring of truth about it. Artists do get obsessed with certain subjects. I watched a PBS series—What Do Artists Do All Day?—and it was a fascinating insight into the creative process. But the way she reacted when I mentioned that Michael was a reporter—I wasn’t imagining that. I know I wasn’t. Something about her changed.
When the client leaves, Dave leans back in his chair and clasps his hands behind his head.
“Steve Enright phoned. I think they’re going to make an offer on Sea Breeze Court, but they’d like another showing first. I’ve made an appointment for two P.M. Is that okay?”
I need to stop thinking about Liz and force myself to focus on something else instead. There are corrugated patches in the armpits of Dave’s shirt—old sweat stains. Couldn’t I find something more palatable to focus on?
“Fine,” I say, and make a note of the time in my calendar. “Have the Frankises gotten back with any feedback?”
“Yes. Mrs. Frankis has concerns about the house next door. You know, the abandoned one. She’s worried it’ll attract squatters.”
“I’m surprised it hasn’t, to be honest. It looks like someone’s already had a go at breaking in.”
“I keep meaning to reach out to the town council about that. Find out what’s going on. Oh, by the way, that woman came back. The one who was asking about a job.”
“Kay?”
“Something about wanting to know how the party went. Was Alfie’s costume a success?”
Shit. I meant to knock on Kay’s door and tell her how well it went, thank her again for her help. I’ve been so preoccupied with everything that’s been going on, I forgot all about it. She went to so much trouble for Alfie and me. The least I could do is get her a thank-you card and a box of chocolates or something.
* * *
—
THE HOURS THAT follow don’t so much drag as stand still. It gets harder and harder to stop the events of the morning piercing through the shield I’ve erected in my mind. Insistent little stabs that won’t be shut out, however hard I try to block them.
Dave’s wife, Carol, drops by at about one thirty with a couple of chocolate eclairs in a box.
“Thought you two might like a little treat,” she says.
She pops in all the time. Dave says she’s paranoid about him running off with someone else and, ever since he told her I live alone with Alfie, she always seems to be on her way to or from an appointment at the hair salon or the dentist’s, or filling in time before meeting a friend for coffee. Maybe now that I’ve told Dave that Michael’s moved in, she’ll ease off a bit. If he tells her. I think he’s secretly thrilled to be the subject of such misplaced jealousy. And of course, the eclairs are always welcome.
I sink my teeth into the chocolate, enjoying the fresh cream and choux pastry that flood my mouth. Carol is sitting at her husband’s desk, leaning in toward him and having a private confab in hushed tones. She does this a lot. It’s her way of marking her territory, and I don’t usually take any notice, but today I hear the words “Stones and Crones” and “the police” and my ears prick up.
“They’ve been in the shop for ages,” she says.
I pretend to be doing something on the computer, but really I’m just moving the cursor around and listening to their conversation.
“I can’t believe she’s that child killer, can you? But then, how would we know?”
She’s talking normally now, her suspicion of what Dave and I might get up to when she’s not around temporarily replaced by this latest turn of events, and I think of what Liz said earlier, about people getting tired of it if they see Sonia Martins moving on with her life, refusing to rise to the bait. It’s not happening yet.
Dave sighs. “I hope to God she’s not, or we’ll be besieged by the press and every other Tom, Dick, or Harry who wants a piece of the action.”
“Maybe she’s called them herself,” I say. “To make a complaint about the false accusation.”
Carol swivels around to face me. “It doesn’t look good, though, does it? The police in her store for everyone to see. People will draw their own conclusions. I can’t see her doing much business after this, can you?”
“You never know, business might improve.”
Carol gives me a blank look.
“She means more people will go in the store to get a look at her,” Dave says.
“And buy a set of runes while they’re in there,” I quip.
Dave smirks, but Carol is pursing her lips.
“Anyway,” she adds, “how do you know it’s a false accusation?”
Relieved that it’s almost time for my appointment with the Enrights, I stand up and make moves to leave.
“If there was any truth in the rumor, I doubt she’d still be here.” I pull on my coat and hook my handbag over my shoulder. “Okay then, I’m off to sell a condo.”
“Try not to mention we may have a child killer in our midst,” Dave says drily.
Carol glares at him.
* * *
—
MY CAR IS pointing toward the ocean, which means I have to drive past Stones and Crones. A police car is parked up on the left, a few doors away from the shop, but even though there’s no one behind me and I’m driving quite slowly, I can’t see what’s happening inside because the window is still boarded up.
I do see Kay, though. She’s waiting to cross the street up ahead, hovering between two parked cars. I stop to wave her across but she doesn’t see me. Her eyes are locked on the other side of the road, on the boarded window of Stones and Crones. Then she spots me through the windshield and does a little jolt of recognition. She raises her hand to say hello.
Now a van is right behind me and I have to drive on. As I glance in my rearview mirror, I see Kay staring at the police car. Her face is blank. Immobile. Like a mask.
36
“IT’S SO UNLIKE ANY OF her other pictures. That’s what made me notice it.”
Michael pours oil into the frying pan and starts browning the onions. He hasn’t spoken yet, but he’s listening intently as he prepares our chicken curry. It’s nice to be cooked for, to enjoy a civilized meal in the evening instead of eating with Alfie at five, which is what I always used to do. It changes everything, having another adult in the house. Especially one who likes cooking.
“I couldn’t believe it when I realized it was made out of scraps of paper. But when I saw where the scraps of paper came from…”
Michael chops a clove of garlic and tosses the pieces in with the onion.
“How did she react when you asked her if she was Sally McGowan?”
“Calmly.”
I tell him what she said about the Myra Hindley painting, and he nods.
“I remember it being on the news when I was a teenager,” he says.
“She said something about darkness being in all our souls and that we’re all capable of evil. That’s the idea behind the portrait. The message she’s trying to convey.”
Michael tips the saucer of spices into the pan, and a delicious aroma fills the kitchen. “Not sure we’re all capable of plunging a knife into a little boy’s chest,” he says. “But still, I think I see what she means.”
The diced chicken and canned tomatoes are going in now. I marvel at his ability to do all this at the same time as having a thoughtful conversation.
“But there’s more to it than that,” I say. “She was too calm. I mean, how would you react if someone more or less accused you of being a notorious criminal? She’s hiding something, I know she is. And she definitely reacted when I told her you were a journalist.”
Michael pauses in his stirring. Only for a beat, but it’s enough to tell me he thinks it’s significant.
“How did she react?”
“It’s hard to describe, but her face sort of closed down for a few seconds. She got very quiet, and then she said it was unlikely Sonia would speak to you.”
“That’s not an uncommon reaction. Loads of people distrust journalists. We’re up there with realtors as the nation’s most detested.” He laughs. “We’re going to be a popular couple, you and I.”
I open the bottle of wine we bought earlier and pour out two glasses. Michael puts the lid on the pan and adjusts the heat. Then we take our drinks into the living room.
“And then there are those photographs on the wall by the stairs.”
“What photographs?”
So I tell him about those, too, and how they reminded me of the documentary we watched.
“How old is Liz?”
“I don’t know. I’ve never asked and she’s never said. I’d say she’s probably in her late fifties. It’s hard to tell, though. Her hair is completely white so I guess it’s possible she’s older.”
Michael’s glass is midway to his mouth when he pauses.
“I know someone whose hair went white overnight when they were forty,” he says.
“What’s Liz’s last name?” he asks, a few seconds later. “Has she ever exhibited any of her art?”
“I’m not sure. She might have. It certainly deserves to be exhibited. It’s very good.”
He picks up his laptop from where he’s left it on the table. “Let’s look her up. See if there are any pictures of her work.”
“Blackthorne,” I say. “Her name is Liz Blackthorne.”
His fingers pause over the keyboard. He frowns.
“What?”
“Nothing. Just…nothing. Let’s see what’s online.”
He types her name into the search bar and finds various Liz Blackthornes but not the one we’re looking for. He tries Elizabeth Blackthorne and E. Blackthorne, and at last we find her listed on a few art-related and gallery websites as E. K. Blackthorne. There is a thumbnail photo of her on one of these sites with examples of her work and brief descriptive passages next to each one. None of them is titled. Then we find a blog of hers called Art in a Seaside Town.
“Look,” I say. “It says she graduated from the Art Institute of Chicago. Doesn’t say when, though. Still, at least we know she’s not McGowan. She’d never have stayed that close to the Dearborn area, would she? Not if she didn’t want to be recognized.”
“No, I don’t suppose she would.” There’s a concentrated look in Michael’s eyes, as if he’s trying to calculate an impossible sum.
“And the Chicago connection explains those photographs.”
“Maybe.”
He snaps the laptop shut and returns to the here and now. Something in his demeanor has changed. He thinks it’s her. I know he does.
He heads for the door. “I’m just going to check on the curry and put the rice on.” He grins. “Must be nice being waited on hand and foot. I wonder when it’s going to be my turn.”
I laugh, but as soon as he’s gone that horrible photo of Alfie with a knife sticking out of his chest appears behind my eyes. It’s always there. Waiting to catch me off guard. Could Liz have doctored that photo? How would she have gotten hold of the digital image? No, Kay and Michael are right about that. It was a Halloween prank by one of the other mothers. Nothing to do with McGowan—well, not directly.
The Twitter account, though. All those literary quotes. Now, that could have been Liz. Trying to scare me into shutting up about that rumor.
37
IT’S TWO THIRTY-SEVEN A.M. AND I’m wide awake. I’m also alone in the bed.
After supper we started watching a movie, but neither of us could concentrate so we finished the wine and had an early night. We tried to make love as quietly as we could so as not to disturb Alfie. I don’t remember much after that. I must have fallen asleep really fast. All this sex is tiring me out.
I get up and open the bedroom door. Perhaps Michael’s just in the bathroom, but he isn’t, so I creep downstairs to see what he’s doing. The light’s on in the dining room, and the door is closed.
His head jerks up as soon as I go in.
“Hey, you,” he says. “I didn’t wake you, did I?”
I shake my head. “What’s up? Can’t you sleep?”
“I’m always the same when I’m in the middle of a new project,” he says. “I can never switch off.”
